


just five things

by preromantics



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-04 06:49:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/preromantics/pseuds/preromantics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Don’t sound absolutely certain or anything, it’s not like you can’t take back what you say on live radio,” Nick says. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	just five things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eloiserummaging](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eloiserummaging/gifts).



> For eloiserummaging who prompted "coming out" and, I'm sorry to say, ended up with this absolutely ridiculous self-indulgence. I haven't written anything in over two months, though, so, *kanyeshrug?*

“Stop, wait, what about that one,” Harry says, tapping at Finchy’s computer screen like he can stop the scrolling with his finger from there.   
  
Nick can’t see the screen around Harry without stretching in a ridiculous fashion, and while he’s usually more than happy to demonstrate his excellent flexibility to every single person in the room, there’s only half a minute before the current song ends. Nick is reasonably sure Matt won’t let Harry pick any really awful questions.   
  
“That one, yeah,” Harry says, at the same time Finchy says, “not that one, really? We don’t usually -”   
  
“No, I want to, it’s fine. I think,” Harry says.   
  
“Don’t sound absolutely certain or anything, it’s not like you can’t take back what you say on live radio,” Nick says.   
  
Harry spins around in his chair, knocking his knees into Nick’s. His face is stupidly earnest looking, a little crease between his eyebrows. “I am absolutely certain,” he says, low and ridiculously serious.  
  
“God, it’s just radio, don’t be so serious,” Nick says, rolling his eyes. Someone across the room groans, but Nick doesn’t care, because Harry is kicking at him and grinning with a little flush on his neck. (Nick can see because Harry’s wearing a stupidly low-cut shirt that looks like he cut it himself, the collar part all rolled under and stretched out and it’s got a faded print but Nick can make out a Klaxon’s logo now that Harry’s tossed his hoodie somewhere and --  
  
“Hey, did you cut my shirt, Styles?” Nick asks, reaching out to tug at the collars, knuckles definitely brushing along Harry’s collarbone on purpose because there’s so much skin.  
  
Harry wheels backwards a bit, out of Nick’s immediate reach, and shrugs.)  
  
Harry kicks out, too, and Nick gets one of Harry’s ankles caught between both of his own and he squeezes just in time to prevent a kick to the shin and he makes a face in warning as the song fades out.   
  
“And we’ve got questions coming in for young Harold Styles, who’s in studio, obviously, and he’s picked his first few to do now,” Nick says, after his mostly-distracted kicky-feet song outro.   
  
Harry rolls too close and bumps into the mic with his nose; if it were anyone else in-studio, Nick knows he’d feel annoyed, because it’s not hard to not hit mics and mess everything up and yet. “Yeah, hello, I’ve got one,” Harry says.   
  
He leans over to read off of Finchy’s screen and Nick stares at the long line of his neck. The way Nick’s shirt droops low over Harry’s shoulder, Nick can just make out a fading pinkish mark from the night before, when they’d been curled up on the couch watching Nigella and Harry’d been draped against Nick’s chest, unmovable even as Nick bemoaned the lack of a cuppa in his life and tried to kick him off the couch to make some. He’s a bit fuzzier on how the mark eventually got there, but he knows there was a stupid sort of half awake tea-vampire joke made on his part and the long line of Harry’s neck under his mouth and --   
  
“-- and I get this question all the time,” Harry’s saying, when Nick drags his eyes back up and remembers to pay attention to his own radio show, “what I look for in girls and all that, but I appreciate this person’s just asked for a top five of what I look for in people.”  
  
Harry holds up his hand with his fingers out, even though that doesn’t matter, “One, I guess, is just someone who can make me laugh,” he says, and folds a finger down. He continues, talking slowly and folding down fingers, “Two, like, people who have awful bedhair in the morning and don’t care about fixing it right away. Three, people who have clothes I can steal.”  
  
“There’s going to be tabloid rumors about you dating your entire band, now,” Nick cuts in, dropping Harry’s ankle from between his feet and making a face. He’s not exactly sure what his face is doing, only that it’s not doing something normal, and he’s hoping it conveys whatever is going on his brain and that Harry understands.   
  
Harry just grins at him, lopsided and small. “Four, people who host radio programs,” he says. “That’s important.”  
  
“Is it?” Nick says.   
  
“Very,” Harry says.   
  
Nick should figure out how to make this into a joke, he thinks, he should probably have a come back ready, maybe Harry expects him to. They hadn’t planned on any specific jokes, even though Harry kept saying last night that they should plan a bit once he’d decided to tag along in the morning as a fill-in guest, but they’d fallen asleep at half-past 10pm on the couch after tea and handjobs (not at the same time) and hadn’t gotten around to it.   
  
“What’s the fifth, then?” Nick asks.  
  
Harry wheels a little closer in his chair, leans on an elbow in front of his mic. “Dunno,” he says, with this look Nick can’t read. “I guess just someone who’s really easy to be around.”   
  
Nick nudges their knees together, hums exaggeratedly into the mic. He wasn’t sure for a moment, that Harry wasn’t just going to -- but he didn’t, and Nick is, well, not exactly relieved, or, jesus, whatever. “Well, minus that one specific condition in number four, I think it’s safe to say you’ve given many of our listeners newfound hope that they might be the one for you, Harry Styles,” he says, catching more than one pointed ‘we’re on air, say something?’ looks pointed his way.  
  
Harry laughs and shakes his head, messing up his hair. “That’s too bad then,” he says, slow.  
  
“Why’s that?”  
  
“I’m already taken,” Harry says, suddenly leaning up to get closer to the mic, sitting up a bit straighter, even. He presses his knee more firmly against Nick’s and Nick sits up straighter, too. “I’ve got a great boyfriend who meets all of those conditions.”  
  
Nick, apparently going into professional mode even as his brain tries to slide out of his ears because, jesus, it’s quarter-past eight in the morning and Harry’s just basically come out with no planning and he’s going to have to spend the whole rest of the day on the phone, probably, and Nick wanted to take him to lunch -- that’s not even important, god, Harry -- “Do you?” he manages, though he suspects his voice is a few octaves higher than normal. Most of the room is still, they all look ridiculous.  
  
“I do,” Harry says, glancing over and looking at Nick. “It’s our official one-year this weekend, I think. I’m rubbish with dates but he’s programmed it into my phone, so.”  
  
“Is it?” Nick says, “Did he?”   
  
“I don’t think he’d mind me saying his name on air, do you?” Harry says, looking more intently at Nick, and Nick’s supposed to say something normal, right.   
  
“Would he?” Nick says, continuing his new trend of sounding like an absolute idiot on air, on his own show, shit. He clears his throat, nudges where Harry’s pulled his knee back a little bit. “Harry,” he says, low and fond even to his own ears, not what he meant to say, whoops. “I mean, no, no I don’t think he’d mind at all.”  
  
“Good,” Harry says, with this stupid pleased grin sliding onto his face. “Uh, then, happy early one-year, Nick.”  
  
“Has it been one year? I don’t remember programming that into your phone,” Nick says. (It’s been a year since Nick stopped being stupid, at least, and 360 days since he gave in and said something eloquent and well-planned to Harry about feelings, which is to say he thoughtlessly blurted out something and Harry laughed bit his ankle because they were lying feet to head in the dark on the tiled floor in Harry’s kitchen -- that was a weird night.)  
  
“You did,” Harry says, scrolling through his phone, “The alert even says ‘programmed by Nick because you’ll forget and probably be away in Narnia or some other country. Sadface’.”  
  
“That does sound like me,” Nick says. He can see the show today dissolving into pretty poor quality morning programming from here on out, because now all he wants to do is make Harry keep looking at him like he currently is.   
  
“We’ve got to go to Tina with the news,” Nick says, because he can see the little rotation on his screen, “but spoiler, the top news story in Britain is that Harry Styles is taken, sorry, everyone who’s lined up for a shot at his heart can go home now, I’ve won.”  
  
“I think you’ve lost,” Harry says, newsbeat music starting to play over him a bit, “you’re stuck with me.”  
  
“For how long, do you think?” Nick asks, pitching his voice up to sound put-out.  
  
“Forever, probably,” Harry says.  
  
Nick tugs Harry toward him, can practically see him vibrating with energy now, and Harry ducks his head when he gets up close. “Forever? Oh, I guess that’s okay, then. I can do that.”  
  
Tina starts the news with a drawn out ‘aww’, and Nick snorts and tips Harry’s face all the way up for a smacking kiss, ignores Finchy throwing bits of rolled up paper at them and stays there when Harry presses even closer and kisses him back properly.  
  
“You okay?” he asks, quiet and just for them, pressed against the upturned corner of Harry’s mouth.   
  
“Fantastic. You? I know that was --”  
  
“-- out of nowhere? Loved it, it’ll be great for ratings,” Nick says.   
  
Harry elbows him in the stomach. “Shut up,” he says, smiling with his nose wrinkled up.   
  
Nick grabs for both his arms, pulls him back again. “You know I’m shit at talking most of the time,” he says, quieter and just for them. (As much as it can be when everyone Nick works with isn’t even bother to pretend they aren’t listening in.)  
  
“You talk for a living,” Harry says, automatic, but nods.   
  
“About this sort of thing,” Nick amends, with a look. “But I --”   
  
\-- love that you did that, for us, love you, am absolutely stupid fucking mad over you and the way you make me laugh and the way your bedhead looks and how you look in my stolen clothes and how easy you are to be with --  
  
“Yeah, me too,” Harry says, completely sincere even though Nick’s gotten nothing out at all. He ducks his head down again and Nick kisses the top of his head.   
  
“Thank you Tina, that was lovely,” Nick says, sitting back up on his post-news cue, “We’re back, and we’ve still got my boyfriend Harry Styles in studio here, he hasn’t run away yet despite everything, and he’s going to answer some more questions for us after the next few songs, so stay tuned.”


End file.
